Chapter 2 #2
But I guess now that someone thinks I’ve been lying about my age, she might finally be right.
Tomorrow, I could very well be arrested.
I slip my tablet from my pocket:
What do you want?
I’m barely into my boring gray bedroom before it beeps with a reply.
We just want to talk.
I stare at the pixelated words. There’s a “we” here, then. It’s not just some random person wanting my ration card or my train
pass. I try to ignore the heartbeat shaking my fingers when I type my reply:
My birthday is in September. Good night.
But I can’t sleep, not now. Not with their message ringing in my head, making it feel like I can’t breathe.
I slip out into the narrow hallway. The faint sound of my parents’ shows floats out of the bedroom and into the dark, a strange
soundtrack as I pull the string to the attic ladder. I press a button on my pocket tablet screen, lighting the flashlight
app as I climb with one hand.
The lockbox is easy enough to find. I remember it from when we moved, when we uprooted our lives into this strange After;
it was one of the things that my mom said was “important.” And back then, my mom didn’t seem to think anything mattered anymore.
I try my birthday—nothing. My mother’s. My father’s.
And, heart thudding, I try today’s date: 0–3–0–9.
The lock clicks and the lid squeaks open.
That should be answer enough, but I don’t want to believe it’s true.
My fingers are shaky as I find the yellowing paper.
Back when I was born, Alba was new. My mom always told me that, unlike digital files, which are generated from AI and can sometimes be inaccurate, or fully hallucinations, paper has truth to it. Printed things can’t lie.
All I have to do is find my birth certificate. Then I can show whoever is texting me, and whoever else, that I actually have
six months left.
The edges of the paper are yellowing and old, and I know the folder I’m looking for. In the Before times, my mom kept these
papers in the file cabinet, and I remember her scolding me for spilling blue paint into the open drawer. My mom was able to
pat them dry, but the edges were permanently discolored.
My fingers press against the edges of the documents: my mom’s birth certificate. My dad’s. Their marriage license. My fingers
still. My birth certificate isn’t in here.
I start from the beginning and run through everthing again, my heart hammering.
Where is my birth certificate?
Beep. I’m growing to hate that sound. I look down and my heart stops. But this time, it’s like the person on the other side of
the message is answering my question.
It’s a picture of an old, yellowing piece of paper. My stomach feels hollow and twisty as I peer closer, because I recognize
something on it. The slight blue along the side—this is my original birth certificate.
And there, right on it . . . March 9.
I sit back on my heels, lose my balance, and land on my ass.
They lied to me. I breathe out through my mouth and in through my nose, just like they tell us to during movement hour at school.
I’m eighteen.
Happy eighteenth birthday, Ripley.
A floor below me, my parents are watching their separate shows.
For a moment, I wonder what it would be like if they didn’t come home that day all those years ago totally changed. I remember
Before, when I was a kid and their days left them exhilarated, cheeks flushed as they talked about their jobs and the real
change they could make. When home was on the other coast, in a big marble building at the top of grand stairs. I remember
how our neighbors were all fighting for a better country, a better world.
And then, one day, we moved across the country, and my parents went from working in the government to working at the farms.
My dad stopped making dumb jokes and my mom stopped speaking up for people in the grocery line when the distribution specialist
tried to give the poorer families the wilted cabbage. It used to embarrass the hell out of me back then.
If they were who they used to be, I could march in and demand to know why they did this. Why they lied. I could cry in front
of them and ask them what we should do, and they’d know what to do.
But I know I can’t do that.
I slip the lockbox back into its place, but it lands with a strangely metallic thump.
I reach into the box and draw out an ancient computer designed to be portable—my grandma always called it a laptop.
I haven’t seen it in years. I stare at it for a moment, then reach down and wrench it open.
At first, nothing happens, no matter how many buttons I press, but then I remember it needs power.
I feel around in the box until my fingers find the wire I’m looking for.
When I connect it into the wall, it chimes and the screen glows.
There’s only one program on the home screen—a little green icon with IR on the front. Image Refiner Pro. When we first moved to Post Angeles, my parents thought that if I worked hard enough at
school, I might be able to build a life for myself, rise up in the ranks. Get myself a safe military post, flying drones or
managing intel from this side of the ocean. They got me this laptop, back when they still had a little bit of hope left.
I stare at it for a moment. The screen is so old that I can see the ripples of power sliding up and down beneath the surface,
almost like a heartbeat. It’s waiting for me to do something.